


Ian White and the Rolodex of Doom

by AlchemyAlice



Series: Armed and Dangerous [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, office life, the further adventures of Pepper's PA, what happens in the background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26623660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlchemyAlice/pseuds/AlchemyAlice
Summary: For the record, Ian does not go to his interview at Stark Industries with any hope of getting the job whatsoever.
Relationships: OMC/OFC, and background pairings you'll know from the rest of the series
Series: Armed and Dangerous [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/17418
Comments: 132
Kudos: 310





	Ian White and the Rolodex of Doom

**Author's Note:**

> Look I wrote like 75% of this back when I was actually writing Armed and Dangerous. And then like a month ago I was going through all of my WIPs in googledocs, and there it was. The final bit of A&D that will make the series officially complete (insofar as there are no fragments left to add on). A thing that no one will care about because nearly a DECADE has passed since I created this silly background character. And I thought, yes. Yes, this trifle must be finished, even if "finished" is very much a relative, slapdash term in this context. Tah. Dah.

For the record, Ian does not go to his interview at Stark Industries with any hope of getting the job whatsoever. 

Applying had been a decision made at three in the morning when he’d drunk too much wine by accident and clicked ‘Send’ on the query email, also by accident. He’d stared at his Sent Items folder for ages the next morning, mildly humiliated, because who the fuck was he to tell _Pepper goddamn Potts_ that he was the guy to keep her schedule?

But then, he reasoned, surely there were some real assholes out there who had fewer items on his or her CV than he, and just wanted to get a chance to interview with a beautiful woman who’s been on the cover of TIME. He could hold the advantage of being a decent human being, not in it for the prestige. 

Plus, even in a drunken stupor he hadn’t made any grammatical or spelling errors so, you know, at least he had that going for him.

But then, Human Resources calls him in for an interview, and so Ian panics, puts an Armani suit on a credit card despite knowing that when he doesn't get the job he’ll be paying for the damn thing for the next two years, and goes to his fate.

His fate, as it turns out, takes the form of Ms. Potts emerging from her office looking harried and a little tired, typing on her StarkPhone and saying into her bluetooth, “No, Tony, I need those signed now, this is non-negotiable, I don’t care how difficult it may be now that Natasha refuses to run errands for you. I have to go now, but I expect those in my hand by the end of today. Stop it. No. You’re terrible. Yes, that will be all, Mr. Stark. Bye.” 

She hangs up, and gives Ian a crooked smile. “Hi, you must be Ian. Sorry about that, won’t you come in?”

“Who’s Natasha?” Ian asks, because he has poor self-control even without alcohol getting involved.

“My last PA,” Ms. Potts replies. “Currently an assassin for SHIELD, and a member of the Avengers Initiative.”

Ian pauses in the doorway. “Should I find that intimidating or a relief?”

“Intimidating. Natasha was very efficient.”

“Ah.” He quietly has hysterics for a second, and then says, “Well, I can assure you that I’m efficient, but to my knowledge, I’m bad at killing people. Not that I’ve tried, just, uh…yeah. I don’t kill people. So. Does that help my case at all? Or is that a strike against me?”

Ms. Potts looks over her shoulder at him, and gives him a serene, unreadable smile. “Why don’t you take a seat, Mr. White?”

“Okay,” Ian squeaks. It’s all very undignified. 

From that inauspicious start, Ian makes the safe assumption that it can only get worse. So when he sits down in the chair across from Ms. Potts’ desk, he casts a look around at the office, eyes catching for a moment on a gorgeous Kandinsky, and says, “Why did Natasha leave? Did SHIELD call her back?”

“Pretty much,” Ms. Potts says. “Also, her cover was blown during the Stark Expo. It’s been a little manic around here.”

“Bad timing,” Ian comments. “You could have asked her to just appear at random intervals in Mr. Stark’s workshop. He’ll have those papers signed and in your hands within six hours.”

Ms. Potts stares at him. Hysteria is becoming a desperately familiar sensation.

“Not a bad idea,” she says at last, a spark of interest in her gaze. “She might even enjoy that.” She cocks her head. “Take me through your resume. What brings you to technology development after your time in art?”

Four hours later, Ian emerges from a very classy hotel bar across the street from the office, blitzed off his face, with a new job starting the next day.

Pepper packs him into a cab, her cheeks flushed and her movements loose even as her balance in her Cavalli stilettos remains impeccable. “See you tomorrow,” she says. “I expect you at eight. We’ll get you fitted with all of the company tech as soon as possible, and then I’ll show you the Rolodex.”

“Rolodex?” Ian asks hazily. “You still have one of those things?”

“Of a sort,” she smiles, and the cab drives away.

Thus, Ian White, MFA, became the first line of defense for the fifth-most powerful woman in the world. Not the most absurd life decision Ian has tripped and fallen into over the course of his short years, but not the least either.

***

The Rolodex is actually more akin to an annotated bibliography, except instead of sources, there are people. 

Christ, but Pepper knows a lot of people. 

Ian’s pretty sure that by having access to the Rolodex, he’s been put on some sort of government watch list.

He mostly gets into the groove of things by ignoring the insanity of it all and just dealing with everything in small chunks—schedule for the month, meetings for the next week, hour-by-hour phone calls that need to be received and made. Color-coding helps a lot, as does Pepper's patience in getting him up to speed.

In that way, actually, he’s relieved to find that he and Pepper are perfectly suited to each other. Pepper navigates social and business situations like they’re entirely discrete from each other even when they’re really, really not, and so long as she determines which boundaries go where, Ian is perfectly able to adjust his own behavior and actions accordingly. 

So when she passes by his desk with a quick, “Natasha is stopping by, try to delay her for just a moment, but if you can’t, don’t worry,” he knows that Natasha Romanov has become a friend rather than an associate, but also that Pepper is also rather busy and shouldn’t be disturbed unless it’s an emergency. 

Which leaves him wondering how the hell he can delay the _Black Widow_ , even for a minute.

Natasha comes in wearing a flight suit and making it look like couture, an artful smudge of grease on her cheek. “Agent Romanov to see Ms. Potts,” she says, with clearly no intention of stopping.

“Wait,” Ian says, “You’ve got a—“ He rubs at his own cheek to demonstrate.

She stops, looks at him, and says, “I know.”

Ian scrambles for something to say to that. He can only come up with the headache he’s been dealing with all morning. 

He runs with it. “Walter is the worst, how the hell did you get him to do anything?”

That’s when she _really_ stops. Ian didn’t realize that someone could look like they’ve paused while actually continuing to move at the same rate. Her mouth curves up just slightly on one side. “Blackmail, mostly,” she replies, looking him over. “He stared at my cleavage one too many times.”

“Nice,” Ian breathes, and then quickly corrects, “Not for you, obviously, but I admire the use of leverage.”

She snorts. After a moment’s pause, she changes her trajectory, and then leans on the edge of his desk. “What’s Walter avoiding now?” she asks.

“Expense reports. Does he skim or something?”

“No, he’s just terrible at math and only half-competent at Excel, and he knows that as soon as he turns anything in he’s going to get angry phone calls from accounting. Dread is always his top motivation for procrastination.”

“So he has fear, but not enough fear to actually get better at his job,” Ian summarizes, and decides to make a note of that in his own, much more modest, sub-Rolodex Rolodex. “Or I suppose, at that aspect of his job, at least.”

“Correct,” Natasha says. “Other observations?”

“Untidy, and probably anti-abortion,” Ian says. “To be honest, not getting this damn thing signed is probably half his procrastination, and half mine.”

“Hmm,” Natasha says, in a way that makes Ian completely unable to tell what she’s thinking. “Tell you what. I’ll make him do it.”

Ian stares at her. “Wait. Really?”

“Really,” Natasha says. And then she adds, “You’ll owe me.”

“Well,” Ian shrugs, because he figures that, while Natasha Romanov could no doubt think of some truly nefarious ways of getting that favor back, Ian is probably not all that useful to her—it’s not as if he has connections, or superpowers, or hell, even a particularly potent malicious streak. The most revenge he’s ever exacted has been through passive-aggressively signing off his emails with _Hope that helps!_

Natasha gives him an assessing look, and then nods. “Tell Pepper I’ll stop by later this afternoon. I’ll bring Walter’s finished paperwork with me.”

“You’re magical,” Ian says.

“Like a unicorn,” she retorts dryly, and saunters out. 

Fifteen minutes later, Pepper sticks her head out of her office, frowning.

“Did Natasha—“

“She’s stopping by later, when you’re less busy,” Ian supplies.

Pepper raises her eyebrows. “Well done,” she says, after a pause.

Ian doesn’t correct her. He’s got to keep some sort of edge, right?

***

As it happens, Walter is also how Ian meets Nancy.

“’Scuse me, Miss, you look like you’ve lost your way.”

Ian slows his pace down the fifth floor hall with a mixture of both irritation and interest; irritation because Walter is clearly still the worst, and interest because if he can actually catch Walter harassing people then it will give Pepper an excuse to fire him. He’d managed, apparently, to barely escape her post-Obadiah purge by the skin of his teeth, and now it’s only potential wrongful-severance suits that tie her hands. 

The ‘Miss’ in question is unimpressed. Ian takes a cursory note of clear dark skin, high cheekbones, short-cropped ringleted hair, and a well-muscled frame filling out a black boat-neck pencil dress and black ballet flats.

“Do I?” she replies, expressionless and uninflected, refusing to break eye contact. Ian finds himself smirking slightly.

“Uh,” Walter says, flummoxed. “Yes?”

“That’s too bad. Excuse me.” She brushes past him, heading in Ian’s direction. 

Walter is distastefully obvious about checking out her backside, but what catches Ian’s attention more is that as soon as she’s out of his range, she very subtly starts looking for signage with calculated, darting glances. 

Ian catches a look at the file she’s carrying, and spots the SHIELD insignia across the front. He clears his throat. 

She gives him a cool glance. “Yes?”

He points to the file. “If that’s for Ms. Potts, I’m heading to her office now, I’m her PA.”

Her shoulders relax slightly. “It is, thanks.”

He falls into step with her and leads the way to the side elevator. “Sorry about Walter,” he says, as they step inside.

She shrugs. “It happens.”

“Are you a SHIELD agent?”

“Pilot,” she corrects. “I’m just doing a favor for Coulson. Barton’s done something idiotic so he’s busy cleaning up the mess. Something about miniature robots. Anyway, I’d just gotten in from debrief, so I said I’d drop this off on my way home.”

“Ah. So you were in the Air Force before?”

“Briefly.”

“Why briefly?”

“I got recruited to SHIELD when I got tangled up in a hostage situation with HYDRA.”

Ian winces. “Ah. Sounds...tricky?”

“Mm. After, Coulson asked me if I was interested in a slightly more esoteric line of military work. I said yes.”

He mulled this over. “So basically what you’re saying is there a prerequisite of being naturally amazing if you want to work for SHIELD?”

Finally, she cracks a small smile, and even better, it reaches her eyes. “Maybe,” she replies. 

“Knew it."

The elevator dings and opens to where Ian’s desk is situated by the doors to Pepper’s office. Ian looks at his watch and hums.

“Listen,” he says, “If you’d like to give me the file to pass on to her, I’d be happy to do that for you. But um, do you have a minute to see her personally? She has an open ten minutes coming up.”

Nancy raises an eyebrow. “I guess I’m in no rush. Why?”

“Well…how would you like to get Walter fired?”

She tilts her head to one side, gaze speculative. “Is he good at his job?” she asks.

“Not especially. Not so much that we’d miss him. Also, that shouldn’t really matter, given…” he waves a hand generally in the direction of what had happened downstairs.

She says dryly, “People like him are everywhere. So are people who make white knight offers to get favors later.”

Ian winces. “Fair.” He works saliva into his mouth. “But um...honestly? Pepper would want to know. So you don’t have to see me ever again, but if you don’t mind talking about it, then. She’d take you seriously, is what I’m trying to say.”

She shrugs philosophically. 

“Okay, well. Never mind then.” He holds a hand out for the file.

She crosses her arms over it, still looking at him piercingly, and Ian gets the very distinct feeling that she sees more than he’d necessarily like. But then, she is a SHIELD agent, after all. He supposes he should get used to their uncannier qualities at some point.

“All right,” she says finally. 

Ian exhales, and steps around behind his desk, waking his computer and checking Pepper’s schedule. “She should be done with her phone conference in about five minutes,” he says, and gestures with some irony to the row of chairs that line the opposite wall. “Won’t you have a seat, Ms…?”

She plays along, a knowing quirk in her smile even as she draws herself up primly. “Harker. Nancy Harker. Don’t keep me waiting too long, Mr…?”

“White, Ms. Harker, Ian White. And I’ll see to it that she will see you as soon as possible.”

Her smile is smaller this time, but it’s still there, and that’s good enough for him.

After she’s gone into Pepper’s office and then left again, Pepper sticks her head out of her office and shoots Ian a look. “Did you just send her here to prevent a lawsuit, or to get Walter fired?” she asks.

“Both?” Ian offers, blinking.

Pepper gives him a crooked little smirk. “Good answer. Remind me to give you a raise.”

Ian allows himself a moment to preen, and then discreetly puts a tick in his personal diary: One more reminder of a raise from Ms. Potts. 

***

Ian imagines that he won’t see Nancy again. SHIELD might have a significant connection to Stark Industries nowadays, but that's between the upper echelons of management on both sides, and Ian is hardly a candidate for that kind of security clearance. Besides, life at SI seems to be much like life at most corporate behemoths--full of arcane administrative twisteries, but the day-to-day was aggressively regular.

But months pass, and then without warning the Avengers apparently take on some sort of ridiculous mission (Ian’s not allowed to know the details, but he assumes that all of their missions are probably ridiculous. He tells this to Pepper, and she rolls her eyes and tells him that he has _no idea_ ) and then within hours Pepper is bursting out of her office, carrying a metal briefcase he’s never seen before and calling for the private jet, and she looks terrified, and Ian has no idea what to do except hold all of her calls and wildly flail at online news sites and Twitter in hopes of finding out what the hell might be going on. 

All he can find is some vague story about a black market bust in Canada, which he F-5s every twenty seconds in between fielding phone calls. When he picks up the phone about a half hour later, it’s Pepper.

“Ian, I need you to confirm clearance to land at Buffalo Niagara International, emergency code Bravo Zulu Foxtrot-8304. Don’t talk to anyone except Ralph Yanis in ATC. His number is in the Rolodex. Got it?”

Ian has been scribbling madly since the second she started talking. “Got it.” 

“Good, thanks.” She hangs up.

Ian quietly ignores his panic and finds Yanis in the Rolodex to call in the code. He receives a sigh, followed by a gravelly voice saying, “Give Potts my regards, and tell her she owes me a drink sometime. And if you ever talk to Tony, tell him to stop giving his boss ulcers.”

“I’ll pass that on,” Ian promises, and that’s that.

He gets just about zero work done for the next hour, and then realizes that Pepper will probably kill him if he doesn’t keep everything running smoothly, horrible unknown emergencies notwithstanding. He makes himself a cup of coffee and then plonks himself back behind his desk and tries not to think about international airfields and Tony Stark. 

Pepper isn’t back until the very end of the day, when Ian is reluctantly packing up to head home. A part of him wants to stay to make sure she gets back safely and/or calls, but he knows Pepper will be disappointed if he stays late without having extra work to do. Thankfully, she interrupts his dithering by walking unsteadily out of the elevator at 5:38, accompanied by none other than Nancy Harker. 

“Ms. Potts,” Ian says, startling to his feet, “Is everything—are you alright? Can I get you anything?” He nods at Nancy, who returns the gesture tiredly. 

Pepper gives him a flat look, and exhales. “You can clock out, come into my office, and pour Agent Harker and I some very stiff drinks,” she says. 

Ian scrambles around his desk. “I can do that.”

Nancy, as it turned out, had been on transport for a SHIELD mission that went sour, and she’d then flown a helicopter from Ontario to Buffalo, and then taken over from Pepper’s pilot to head back down to Manhattan because Pepper had called him during his vacation time and felt guilty about it.

“You realize that’s kind of Mike’s job, right?” Ian says, handing her three fingers of Tony Stark’s obscenely expensive scotch. “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t mind being on call for you, Ms. Potts.”

“I wasn’t thinking and didn’t listen to him when he tried to tell me that, because, well,” Pepper mutters. She takes a sip of scotch. “Anyway, he has family in Buffalo. And Nancy offered, so I told him to take an extra week and see them. It worked out fine.”

Ian looks at Nancy, who shrugs. “I was co-pilot for Crowne,” she says, “He was just heading back to the scene for cleanup and evac. I’ll debrief when everyone else gets back.”

“Will Phil be upset that you left?” Pepper asks, clearly not for the first time.

“No,” Nancy says, with a knowing tone that makes Ian wonder. “Agent Coulson will be very glad to know that I returned both you and Stark safely to SI.”

“Stark’s here?” Ian asks.

“He’s at a SHIELD medical facility with Barnes and Rogers,” Nancy reports. “Probably getting yelled at.”

“He’s okay?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Pepper growls. 

“He’s an idiot,” Nancy says firmly. “And Barnes is going to have his hide.”

“Okay,” Ian says, because it’s clear that they’re not going to give any more details than that. “Nancy, what do you drink?”

“Whatever’s the most expensive,” she replies. “I’m in solidarity with Potts and Barnes.”

Ian raises his eyebrows. Nancy gives him a look. “I don’t like it when Captain America’s upset,” she says. “He was upset the _entire flight.”_

“Got it,” Ian nods, and pours two more glasses of the 30-year old Bunnahabhain. He figures he’s allowed to join in on the solidarity, whatever it’s actually about.

He hands one of the glasses off to Nancy, and offers a clink. “Cheers, of a sort,” he says, and she obliges with a snort. 

The scotch is peaty and just slightly sweet, and so smooth Ian can practically taste the years it spent mellowing. He plonks himself in one of the executive armchairs and stretches his legs out. “So is the mission done? Everyone okay?”

“There will be casualties,” Nancy answers. “I don’t know how many yet. But yes, the mission’s done.”

Ian has no idea what to say to that, so he just nods. 

Eventually, Nancy has to report in, and Pepper slides from shock into blurriness, so Ian calls Happy to drive them both. Happy takes one look at the three of them when he comes in and huffs. “You might as well come along too, Mr. White,” he says. “I’ll drop you off on my way home.”

Ian stares at him. “I’m in _Flushing_ ,” he points out.

“Yes,” Happy agrees. “But I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to come back over again to pick up Mr. Stark from SHIELD pretty soon, and frankly, the longer I can delay and keep him in medical, the better.”

“Oh. Right.” Ian will never not be amazed at how Stark’s closest friends and staff have managing him down to a fine art. He remembers that he has Colonel Rhodes’ number in the Rolodex, and makes a mental note to maybe get in contact just to see if he can pick up any further tips if and when the time ever comes that he’ll have to deal with Stark himself. It’s...admirable, he decides. Their quiet acts of solidarity and support. Something to aspire to, even if he’s not really sure Stark deserves it.

In any case, he ends up in the back of a limo with Pepper and Nancy, the two of them having become fast friends. When it comes down to it, Pepper is just _likeable_ , at least to people who don’t have an agenda. Nancy chats amiably, as unflappable in any environment as Pepper is charming. Despite being in a flight suit, her posture is elegant, shoulders loose and square, ankles comfortably crossed. She exudes quiet competence, of which Pepper clearly approves. Ian finds himself watching her a little more than was strictly polite or necessary. He tries to keep his attention on the conversation, and not the way she gestures with her hands.

They chat lightly about off-Broadway and various exhibitions happening in the city in an effort to stave off Pepper’s anxiety. By the time they reach her apartment, Pepper looks calm, her hands no longer shaking, and she gives Ian and Nancy a sweet smile before climbing out of the car, Happy’s hand at her elbow. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Ian; business as usual. Nancy, it was lovely to see you again despite the circumstances. Feel free to call me if you ever need anything.”

“Thank you, Ms. Potts,” Nancy says, clearly aware of just how huge it is for Pepper Potts to decide she owes you a favor. “Take care.”

Pepper nods, and exhales, straightening herself for the short walk inside. “Have a good evening, both of you.”

Happy shuts the door to the limo again and heads around to the driver’s seat. Ian and Nancy look at each other. 

“So,” Ian starts, and then realizes he has no idea where he’s going with that. 

“You’ve got a great boss,” Nancy offers. 

“She’s amazing,” Ian agrees. 

“Coulson has a crush on her big enough to be seen from space.”

Ian chokes on his own tongue. “Really?” he coughs, when he’s pretty sure he hasn’t aspirated anything important. 

“Mmhm,” Nancy says, with a smirk. “I don’t see it that often, but when he’s on the phone with her, he goes all gooey.”

Ian, who has never met Coulson but knows an unlikelihood when he hears one, says, “He doesn’t seem capable of being gooey.”

“You wouldn’t think so,” Nancy replies, “But I’ve seen it. It’s weird. Barton says it’s like seeing a puma roll over on its back and request belly rubs.”

Ian makes a face. Then he pauses, a sudden memory pinging him. “I got a call from Agent Romanov the other day,” he said slowly.

Nancy raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I owed her a favor from a while back. She asked if Pepper had gone to see a string quartet recently. Beethoven. Said she just wanted to check something.”

“Had she?” Nancy asks.

“She had,” Ian confirms. He looks at Nancy, and she looks back. 

“Date night,” they conclude together. 

Nancy snorts. Ian giggles into his hand, and then immediately feels foolish.

The car comes to another stop, and Happy opens the door on Nancy’s side. “SHIELD headquarters, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hogan,” Nancy says. She nods to Ian. “Nice to see you again. Thanks for the scotch.”

“Any time, despite the fact that it isn’t mine,” Ian says automatically. And then he blurts, “I like art.”

Nancy is already out of the car; she stoops to look back in at him. “Oh?” she says, a little flatly.

“That exhibition on Columbus Circle you and Pepper were talking about,” Ian babbles, feeling disjointedly like all sense has deserted him, and the only option left is giving up and running with it. “My friend from school, he works at it, so if you want tickets, I could get tickets. Just, if you’re interested in seeing it, because I know it’s a short run. Just. Yeah. Let me know if that’s at all interesting, I can hook you up.”

Nancy stares at him for a long moment, and Ian stares back, because clearly his panic default is freezing like a deer in headlights, and also there are tiny flecks of gold in the brown of her eyes that he’d really like to try painting some time. She blinks, and he fidgets violently in response. 

“I guess I have your number,” she says, gesturing vaguely with the business card Pepper had given her. 

“Yeah,” Ian manages. 

“Okay. Thanks,” she says, and walks away. Happy gives Ian a dubious look, but doesn’t comment—just shuts the door and goes back around to the driver’s seat again. 

“I would like another drink,” Ian says as they start off again, because clearly he’s had too many already, so he might as well keep going.

“Champagne and port’s in the right side compartment,” Happy says helpfully.

“Am I allowed?”

“You’re a Stark employee, and you’ve gotten as far as getting a ride in one of the company limousines without being with a client—it’s pretty much expected.”

“Oh, good.”

***

Several weeks later, Pepper admits to going on a date with Coulson (Ian pretends to be surprised, but doesn’t have to pretend at all that he’s _delighted_ )…and then a lot of _crazy shit_ happens. Everything Ian said about SI being a normal place to work? He takes it all back.

Ian tries not to think of the two things as related, Coulson and sudden work weirdness, but it’s really difficult, because it seems like the second Pepper starts going pink whenever Ian forwards Coulson’s calls to her, paperwork starts getting misplaced under odd circumstances, and the copy machines start going on the fritz. At first, he thinks it's just seasonal change or Mercury in retrograde, but then, a couple days later, he takes the minutes for a meeting with some irritating lawyers who come bringing some…really _weird_ powerpoints. He emerges from it with pictures of the slides clandestinely taken on his Starkphone, wondering if he's somehow committing unintentional corporate espionage, or if he's going to be found out and assassinated, and barely sleeps. The day after that, he learns that said apparently contain secret messages being conveyed to shady government agencies, and in short: Ian is not equipped for this, _not at all._

“There are _spies_ here!” he hisses to Allen at one point when Pepper is out with Coulson doing god-knows-what, probably planning a way of flushing out the moles in SI, but possibly brainstorming effective stratagems for taking over the world. “Actual spies! What the hell do we do?”

Allen, who is head of security, and unnervingly friendly for a man whose biceps are the size of Ian’s head, merely raises an eyebrow. “We don’t do shit, Mr. White,” he says. “You stay at your desk and act like nothing’s wrong, and I do my job, which is whatever Ms. Potts decides is the best thing for me to do.”

“Argh!”

“You need to chill.”

“I am physically incapable of chilling right now,” Ian says.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” Allen offers. “I make a mean Earl Grey.”

“I want a sedative.”

“I’m afraid I’m not allowed to administer those without you making threatening gestures.”

“How threatening?” Allen gives him a look. “Right. Never mind.”

“Let us do our jobs,” Allen says consolingly, which only works halfway because he is still head of security and therefore capable of breaking Ian into tiny pieces. “Everything’ll be back to normal soon enough.”

Ian tries to believe him. It’s hard to, however, when _Tony fucking Stark_ comes in with his friendly neighborhood AI, interrogates Ian about his phone footage, and then starts wafting in and out of the office on a daily basis to whine at Pepper.

“Pepper. Pepper, my darling. Pepper, light of my life. What are you up to? No seriously, I know it’s your company, but _what’s your plan I need to know the plan_.”

“No, Tony.”

“She says no, sir,” Ian contributes, and herds him into the elevator. He stares at Pepper when it shuts out Tony’s babbling rant. “You’re really keeping secrets from the Avengers?”

“Keeping it a secret is part of the plan,” Pepper replies. “Don’t worry about it. I know what I’m doing.”

Ian doesn’t doubt it. But he’s also never denied a powerful person like Tony Stark something they wanted before. He feels a little drunk with power.

“Have some tea,” Pepper says. “I’m going to freshen up for dinner.”

Ian doesn’t know of any dinner in her schedule, which means two things: a) it’s with Coulson, and not on business, and b) Coulson has Pepper’s most sacred and private cell phone number now.

Damn, that man must be smooth.

“Gold Louboutins or blue Lanvins?” Pepper says from behind her mostly-closed office doors.

“Gold,” Ian calls back, stirring sugar into his tea. “Knock him dead.”

Pepper pokes her head out. “It wouldn’t be too trashy?” she inquires.

“You’re wearing the high-necked Lacroix I picked up from the dry cleaners today, right? With that, definitely not trashy.”

She narrows her eyes, and then nods. “Okay,” she says, and disappears behind the doors again. 

Ian goes back to reviewing expense reports, and takes comfort in the fact that the past few weeks have proven to him, more than anything else, that he is not cut out for the glamorous life that Pepper apparently lives. Because glamour also means either running from or cleaning up after death and destruction, and frankly, his heart can’t take it.

His phone chimes. He picks it up distractedly.

_Hi, it’s Nancy Harker. Do you think you could still get tickets to the Korean Eye exhib? I suddenly have an evening free._

Ian raises his eyebrows. _Yeah, should be able to. What evening?_

_This one, soon-ish? 7:30?_

Ian frantically sends a text to Kristopher, who thankfully sends back an affirmative. _Sure thing. Won’t be able to see it for long, but yeah. Meet you there?_

_Yes, sounds good._

Pepper strides out of her office looking like five million dollars, lipstick retouched, her hair knotted loosely at the nape of her neck, the Lacroix dress draping perfectly over her shoulders and hips. She eyes Ian as she passes. “You look pleased,” she observes. 

“Seeing the Korean Eye at MAD tonight,” Ian says, still staring at his phone. “Should be good.”

“Nancy wanted to see that,” she comments.

“Yeah, we’re meeting there.”

“Oh,” Pepper says, with enough feigned innocence as to practically drip innuendo.

“Have fun on your date with Coulson,” Ian says in retaliation.

“It’s not a—“ she stops. “Yes well, have fun with Nancy,” she amends, a little petulantly. “How do you know _that’s_ not a date?”

“It definitely isn’t,” Ian replies as he shuts down his computer. “Fairly certain she’s far too cool for me, and that I was a massive dick while attempting to ask her out. Hold the elevator, I’ll ride down with you.”

“Korean Eye isn’t that hard to get into,” Pepper says as the elevator starts its descent. “I suppose it’s the last few days and you were looking to get in last-minute, but Nancy probably could have gone around to see it by herself if she was inclined.”

“Maybe she likes going to museums with other people?” Ian suggests.

“Mm,” Pepper says neutrally. 

“It’s not a date.”

“Of course not.”

Ian wouldn’t mind if it is; Nancy is curvaceous and tall and, as far as Ian can tell, completely no-nonsense, which complements Ian’s admitted overabundance of nonsense. She flies planes and beats up bad guys for a living, and she likes contemporary art. She could probably break Ian over her knee. It’s safe to say that, barring any unknown crippling character flaws, she’s kind of great. 

Ian adjusts his tie, then takes it off and puts it in his pocket, and smooths down his jacket. It’s not as nice as the Armani, but it’s definitely a step up from what he used to wear, thanks to his current salary and Pepper’s invaluable advice. 

“You look fine,” Pepper murmurs with a smirk, and then strides ahead of him out of the elevator and into the waiting towncar outside. 

Ian clears his throat, realizes that he’s very nervous, and then hurries out to the subway.

***

Nancy is dressed down for the first time Ian’s seen when she meets him at the entrance to MAD, but her military neatness persists in the smooth tuck of her jeans into motorcycle boots, and the buttoned-up collar of her blouse under a battered leather jacket. She frowns when Ian skids into view. “Did you come straight from work?” she asks.

“Was just finishing up when you texted,” Ian explains.

“Aren’t PAs supposed to work regular hours?”

“Pepper has a lot to keep track of; so...so do I.” Ian smooths his jacket down again. “Shall we?” 

Nancy nods, and they amble inside. 

It’s been a while since Ian was last in MAD, but it hasn’t changed considerably except for the exhibits. Kris, foppish blond hair askew over his black turtleneck as usual, is at the desk as they enter.

“Why, if it isn’t Mr. White,” he says, flicking his hair back from where it slid onto his forehead. “How goes working for The Man?”

“The Man is great, as am I,” Ian replies. “Incidentally, though, The Man is a woman.”

“Semantics,” Kris dismisses. He looks at Nancy. “You going to introduce me to your ladyfriend?”

“Nancy,” Nancy says before Ian can. “Also employee of The Man.”

“Ugh,” Kris says, not terribly seriously. “Are you a suit? You look like a suit.”

“Driver of the suits,” Nancy replies.

“Ah. That’s all right, then.” Kris passes them a couple of maps of the museum, as well as pamphlets on the various exhibits. “You’re gonna like this one, Ian, there’s a lot of recycled material sculpture and textured paintings you’ll want to stare at for a few eons.”

“Excellent, thanks,” Ian says, because Kris isn’t wrong. He’s a big fan of texture, it was one of the most interesting parts of learning restoration.

He mentions this to Nancy as they walk around.

“You were a restorer?” she asks. “How’d you get into Potts’ employ, then?”

“Kind of by accident?” Ian says, scratching the back of his neck. They stop in front of a hulking sculpture of a minotaur made out of old rubber tires. It looks soft and menacing all at once. “I applied on a whim, though I was definitely looking for jobs like it at the time. Restoration is wonderful, I love it, but unless you’re part of an established studio, the work is uneven, and the goal of it…well, I wanted to try out planning things, rather than fixing them after the fact. The money’s nice too, obviously,” he adds, “But more than anything, I like the ongoing pace of SI, and I like Pepper. I like working for someone who I want to be loyal to.”

Nancy smiles slightly. “I get that.”

“Also, I’m great at filing things. Color-coding is very soothing.”

“I get that less, but I believe you.”

They wander up to what looks like a frame of the new Speed Racer movie, all technicolor streaks and metallic gleams. Ian peers at the caption to look at the media involved. 

“I lied,” Nancy says suddenly. “About how I got recruited to SHIELD.”

Ian pauses, blinks, and steps back from the painting. “Um. Why?” he asks.

“Because you were being intrusive and weird, and I had just gotten harassed by your coworker.”

“Ex-coworker,” Ian murmurs, abashed. 

Nancy shrugs. “You didn’t catch me in an honest mood.”

He mulls this over. “So you haven’t beat up any agents of HYDRA?”

“I have,” Nancy replies. “I just hadn’t at that point. Beating up bad guys doesn’t happen until you’ve gotten a lot of training.”

“Oh.”

Nancy shrugs again, her hands stuffed in the pockets of her leather jacket. “I was in the Air Force for a while. Didn’t much like the culture, but I liked the discipline, and the skill involved. Then the Hulk happened. Or, Blonsky, really.”

“Ah.”

“Mm,” Nancy nods. “I was called in, same as a bunch of others. Lost a lot of friends. Decided that I didn’t much like what they died for, either.” She shrugs. “Fury seemed like a better bet than the military.”

“Way shadier though,” Ian offers.

“ _Way_ shadier,” Nancy agrees with a crooked smile. “But that’s more my speed anyway. Much less bureaucracy, much more competence all around.”

“You’re a rebel in disguise,” he surmises. 

“Or I just like the comfort of knowing I have jurisdiction over most branches of the federal government,” Nancy shrugs. “At least, I can pretend that I do.”

“Secret badass,” Ian singsongs under his breath. And then he clasps his hands together and adds, after a pause, “I’m sorry for being intrusive. It wasn’t my intention, but I get that that doesn’t mean much. I’ll do better. No promises on the weird bit, though, I’m afraid that’s genetic.”

Nancy gives him a long look, and then elbows him playfully. She then has to steady him when he nearly stumbles into a sculpture. 

“This was the test run of that,” she allows. “Solid score, so far.”

Ian exhales, and nods. “Thanks for the opportunity, then.”

“Ooh, look, that one’s shiny!” Nancy says, brightening, and heads off in another direction. 

Ian blinks, shakes his head, and follows. “Shiny?”

“Listen, the physics of light are the cornerstone of art, you should know this.”

"I--I _do,_ how dare--!"

All in all, it’s a fun evening. 

Nancy doesn’t make any promises to call as she disappears back into the subway. But it was fun anyway. 

***

The Powerpoint Incident, as Ian has started calling it, finally blows over about a week later. At least, Ian can only assume it does, because one day Pepper changes into what he privately calls her _Khaleesi ensemble_ , and then a helicopter is landing on the roof of the office. Within hours, a significant number of people disappear from SI’s employee files, among them the lawyers with whom Ian had had his weird meeting. 

He doesn’t ask. Not even when Tony fucking Stark calls him to whine about how he doesn’t know what’s going on at his own damn company, come _on,_ Ewan, Ifan, whatever your name is, _give me the scoooop_.

“Now you know how I feel all the time,” Ian says tartly, and hangs up. If he then gives himself a Liz Lemon-style self high-five, no one needs to know.

Allan claps him on the shoulder the next day. “You missed all the excitement?” he asks.

“You know it,” Ian replies. “What happened?”

“Need to know,” Allan says, tapping the side of his nose. “But I’ll just say that it gave my people some proper exercise.” He gives Ian an appraising look. “I hear you had something to do with finding the whole thing.”

“Considering I have no idea what the ‘whole thing’ is, I’ll have to say that I didn’t.”

Allan laughs. “Take your credit where it’s due. You’ll find yourself among friends before you know it.”

Ian is a little dubious of what kind of friends those might be, but he lets it go. Meetings to schedule, resumes to review. He can compartmentalize with the best of them.

Two weeks later, however, Natasha swings in, clearly having terrified everyone in her wake. Ian can practically hear the scuttling downstairs. “You _have_ been busy,” she coos at him. It’s incredibly patronizing, but from her that seems only appropriate.

“Oh?” Ian says, raising his eyebrows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Finally got the story out of Pepper,” Natasha replies, smug. “Not the Level Ten stuff, obviously, but the gist. You’ve been a very busy bee, Mr. White.” She peers at his ID tag. “No SHIELD clearance yet? Shame. I’ll see what I can do about that.” 

“Please don’t. I’d rather not know about anything except office gossip. Which, I must add, I am very informed about.”

“Oh, that I’m sure of. So what’s the skinny out of HR?” 

Some time later, Pepper finally comes in, late for the first time in what seems, to Ian, like decades. She is _glowing._

“Yowza,” Natasha says, under her breath. She’s been sitting on Ian’s desk for the past however long, seemingly chatting about nothing, but Ian’s fairly sure he’s told her about his entire life history and those of everyone he knows at SI by accident. It is, he’s come to understand, one of the hazards of being friends with a spy. He hopes he hasn’t said anything mortally embarrassing or compromising.

“Good morning,” Pepper says, sounding like she’s trying very hard not to be incredibly smug. 

“Oh man,” Ian says, because he has to.

“In the immortal words of Clint, _daaamn_ ,” Natasha adds.

“Hush, the both of you,” Pepper says, pinking all over. “Mr. White, report?”

“Mr. Stark called, wanting to know if he should start drawing up plans on how to defend himself against, and I quote, ‘The combined terrifying powers of Pepperpot and Supernanny’,” Ian reports, trying very hard to switch gears. “I told him he probably shouldn’t bother starting things he’s doomed to fail at.”

“Remind me to give you a raise,” Pepper says with a smile. Then she shoots a warning look at Natasha. “Shouldn’t you be saving the world or something?”

“Oh, sorry,” she replies knowingly, pushing off of Ian’s desk and heading for the elevator. “I thought you and Coulson had that covered.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Pepper sniffs, “We’re just keeping things tidy.”

She swans into her office, shutting them both out. 

“Clint owes me so much more money,” Natasha says, looking at the closed office door while the elevator made its way up. “Never tell him that I’ve had you as an inside source.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Ian replies happily. 

“Good,” Natasha says. She gives him a dangerous smile. “I’ll owe you one. We're friends now, you see.” 

Oh. Friends like _Natasha._ Ian can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. He chooses not to think about it.

***

Things are quiet for a little while after that—Ian is kept busy liaising with HR to try and narrow down the field of potential replacements for the employees Pepper fired.

“Tell me a bit about what brings you to SI?” he asks, for the fifth time that week. He genuinely likes interviewing people—he's sociable, he likes meeting new people—but after a while, the parade of tight-wound, poised and scarily accomplished prospective assistants and analysts all start to feel the same. 

“Well, I was going to do an internship here a while back, when I was a kid,” this latest guy says, worrying his hands. He’s wiry and not much younger than Ian, with mousy brown hair and a useless poker face. “I couldn’t though, there was some family...stuff, I had to deal with, and then some other stuff came up. Anyway! I’ve been super into what SI has been doing since Tony Stark got into sustainable energy and everything, and it just seems like a cool work culture? Like, I dunno, I’ve met you and you did art stuff before you got here, and the guy in HR I screened with, he mentioned he was a poet in his spare time, and like, multi-faceted people, right? I like working with cool people with stuff going on outside of work.”

“You have other stuff going on?” Ian nods. The guy’s sort of refreshing, in his lack of polish. 

“Yeah! I’m a photographer. And other things.”

“That's great!” His resume doesn’t really show what other things those were, but Ian likes intangibles, they make people interesting. “So, explain to me something I know nothing about.”

The guy looks flummoxed for a second. “Like what?”

“Name a few things you like to talk about,” Ian replies. “I’ll pick one I’ve never heard of or have never read anything about, and we’ll go from there.”

“Uh. Quantum entangled computing?”

Ian tilts his head. “That’s...certainly something I don’t know anything about. Why…” he peered at the guy’s cover letter. “You’re applying for an EA position?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, I need the flexible hours. I can’t be in a lab at all hours, I take care of my aunt and—”

Ian holds up a hand. “You don’t need to tell me about any circumstances of why. If you need to talk to HR about it, that’s fine. But I just asked because I wanted to make sure we were fitting you in the right place.”

He relaxes. “Oh uh. Right. Yeah no, I looked at all of the hour breakdowns, and the salary and stuff, and I think this is the only position that really works for me and pays the rent. And I like looking after people and helping!” He shrugs a little helplessly. “Honestly? I can find most things interesting. I just want to be able to do interesting work with people I like.”

Ian nods, smiling slightly. “Fair enough. Okay, Mr, Parker, explain quantum computing to me.” 

In between hiring meetings, it's clear that word has gotten around that Ian was embroiled in some of the company drama. As a result, Allan is proven even more right than he was about Natasha: within six months of starting work, Ian is invited to the We Are Peons in a Scary Overpowered Universe Club. Aka, WAPSOUC. Ian has doubts that the acronym will stick, and mentally shortens it to _The Peon Society_.

He gets the invite because Jess in Engineering comes up to the office to drop off some last-minute figures, and her hands shake when she hands it over.

“You all right?” Ian asks, concerned.

Jess smiles a little ruefully. “Got caught in some Avengers crossfire last week, that thing in Hell’s Kitchen with that Daredevil guy. Nothing serious, but it’s a little scary, up close.”

He sits up. “A little? Christ, aren’t you due a bit of time off?”

“I’d rather work, to be honest,” she replies, and then cocks her head. “I have a good support group. You helped with the whole SI-mole thing the other day, right?”

“For a certain value of ‘helped’, sure.” Ian shrugs. He gets up and heads to the executive cabinet to make a cup of ginger tea with the raw clover honey that he always likes when he’s stressed. When he offers it, she cups it in her hands and breathes in the steam. 

“Oh wow, that’s...really nice. Thanks.” She looks at him steadily. “You should come along. Anyone who can keep up with Ms. Potts must have some useful coping mechanisms.”

“Do I _ever_ ,” Ian says automatically, and Jess laughs a little. 

“Wednesdays after work, we’re at the Capital Grille,” she says. “Come if you like, we’d be happy to have you.”

The next Wednesday, he goes. 

The group is not huge, but it’s certainly diverse; along with Jess, there’s Mike and Tanner, two guards under Allan’s command, a few lab techs, and several below-Level-Three staff members from SHIELD. Also, a girl named Darcy, who apparently knows way more about Avengers-adjacent things than she’s supposed to. 

“He’s really a sweetheart, I promise!” she says, as Ian approaches the group. “He’ll take selfies with you if you ask politely!”

“I’m pretty sure I’d shit myself before managing more than two words,” Tanner mutters. “I bench 250, and I’m pretty sure his biceps could crush my head.”

“He _is_ a god,” one of the lab techs points out.

“Yeah, a handsome, beardy god,” Jess adds, “Dr. Foster’s a lucky girl.” 

“Dr. Foster’s been at the epicenter of not one, but _two_ near-apocalyptic scenarios in the past five years,” Ian points out, setting his beer down. “Your definition of lucky might be a bit skewed there.”

“Ian!” Jess looks up at him with a smile. “You came!”

“I did. Hello.” Ian does his usual awkward ‘meeting people’ wave. He gets several in return.

“You’re Pepper Potts’s PA, aren’t you?” Darcy says, peering at him. “What’s that like?”

“Busy,” Ian answers honestly. “But nothing to write home about, most of the time.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Mike says. “Iron Man’s been around long enough that you have to have dealt with him at least once or twice.”

“He’s only the CEO—“ 

“Ex-CEO of the company,” Ian corrects. “And he’s kind of a dick.”

“Oh?” Darcy asks.

“Well, I hand him a crazy government conspiracy, and he doesn’t even remember my _name,_ for one!” Ian exclaims, not realizing until that moment how much that has stayed with him. 

“Aw, honey,” Darcy coos.

And from that moment on, Ian is _in._

He could feel bad about it—the circumstances are a little forced, he’ll readily admit—but the company sure is nice. 

When he runs into Mike and Tanner in the hall later in the week, their brusque nods seem more in solidarity than in politeness. It makes Ian’s day just that little bit brighter. 

He keeps going to the meetings, and tries to keep his mouth shut for the most part. There’s been a lot of trauma in Manhattan lately, and he’s learning more and more that he’s been lucky, so goddamn lucky to be out in Queens, to be living his life quietly when there’s been aliens and Doombots and giant bugs flying around. He sees the news, the cleanup crews, but it’s different, seeing people talk about it, who lived through it. 

So he listens, and when he picks up on something awful, he tries to steer them in the direction of help. At SI, that mostly means getting his grubby hands on policy, which Pepper delegates to him with increasing frequency. A recommendation for childcare resources here, a tweak to healthcare there. He takes extra care with the administration of the reconstruction projects Pepper passes on to him. Because it matters a lot, and he’s glad to be doing work that matters. 

Being Pepper’s PA actually holds a significant amount of weight too, he finds. He doesn’t remember the last time he recommended something in a professional environment _was listened to._ When he brings it up with Pepper after a somewhat contentious meeting with management accounting that he managed to emerge from victorious, she gives him a gentle smile.

“Well of course, Ian. I’ve made it clear that I trust your judgment. It would reflect very badly on everyone else not to do the same.”

He stares at her. “But you—”

“I’m an excellent judge of character,” she interrupts. “Aren’t I?”

Ian dips his head back and forth. “Well, you are friends with Tony…”

She smacks him in the shoulder. “Exception that proves the rule!”

He snorts, and gets back to work.

***

Nancy calls him a month later and before he even gets out his requisite _Ms. Potts’ office, how can I help?_ she’s blurting, “That favor, I need to cash it in right now.”

Ian blinks, and then quickly assesses his calendar. “Right, I’ve got ten minutes, go.”

As it turns out, it’s not so much Nancy’s trouble as it is Agent Barton’s. 

“I have this thing with mobsters?” Clint tries sheepishly, when Nancy drags him in after her. “It has this tendency to backfire.”

“Everything you do has a tendency to backfire,” Nancy shoots back. She looks at Ian. “Could you maybe get someone in the Commissioner’s office in a listening mood so we could sort this out? Normally I’d say let SHIELD deal with it, but seeing as it was on Clint’s off hours—“

“I get it,” Ian says, flipping through the Rolodex. “How’d you get tangled up in it?”

She sighs. “The usual way—I was transport. Then the NYPD showed up and everything escalated, and basically I don’t want to be grounded for being stupid enough to listen to Hawkeye without his minders.”

“Hey!” Clint protests. “I don’t have minders, I have friends and colleagues!”

“Friends and colleagues who like you enough to be your minders,” Nancy corrects tartly. “Please stop talking now.”

“Aww.”

“I have a contact in the Narcotics Division who might be willing to hear an explanation at least, do you think that would help?” Ian offers, pulling out a business card from the Rolodex.

“Seriously? _Yes,_ ” Nancy says. “That would be fantastic.” 

Ian goes to work. It takes a little while to explain that he wasn’t trying to sort something out on behalf of Tony Stark (“Man, Tony probably did _all the drugs_ back in the day _,_ ” “Shut _up,_ Clint”), but once it gets reframed as Avengers business, Pepper’s Narc is exceedingly accommodating.

“Always a pleasure working with Potts’s office,” he says. “If she was Commissioner, there’d probably be no goddamn crime in this city.” 

“Don’t I know it,” Ian agrees. “So long, and thanks for all your help.” He hangs up, and lays his forearms on the desk, leaning forward to look at Barton.

“Agent Barton,” he says, with as much gravity as he can muster (which isn’t a great deal, but still). “The NYPD Narcotics Division formally requests that the next time you try to disrupt the workings of a drug cartel, please at least give them some warning beforehand. They do not appreciate being kept in the dark.”

Barton salutes sloppily. “Aye aye, el capitan.”

“Don’t let Steve hear you call him that,” Nancy says, pointing at Ian. “He might get jealous.”

“I really doubt Captain America has any reason to be jealous of me,” Ian mutters. 

“Oh, I dunno,” Clint says. “Solid job working for someone way less morally dubious than Fury, a pretty lady asking favors of you—“

Nancy elbows him, hard. His breath leaves him in a rush. 

“We should be going now,” she says, smiling tightly as she pulls Clint away by the elbow. It’s hard to tell, but Ian thinks that her cheeks are maybe a bit flushed. “Thanks for your help. Coffee sometime?”

“Um. Sure!” Ian says. “Call anytime!”

She dimples at him, and then drags Clint out of the office just as Pepper strolls in, looking pleased with herself, as she often is when returning from lunch with Coulson. She looks at Hawkeye’s receding back and then at Ian, raising an eyebrow.

“Smoothing some ruffled feathers,” Ian offers. “I didn’t think you’d mind. Garvey from Narcotics sends his regards.”

Pepper doesn’t blink. “Kind of him,” she says. “Everything’s taken care of otherwise?”

“Yes,” Ian replies, double-checking on his computer, “Weekly reports are on your desk, and relevant requests for your attention have been forwarded on to you. Also, your meeting at three has been moved to three-thirty, the guys in PR had some extra work come up, but should be there in due time.”

“You’re getting almost as good as Natasha,” Pepper smiles. “Email me the meeting’s materials by two, and no calls until then, please.”

“You got it.” 

She strides into her office. Ian allows himself a moment to preen.

***

“Hey, White,” Tanner says, catching him on his way in through security on a Friday. “You push through that elder care policy?”

“Oh, that announcement went out? I just made some edits to it before HR passed it through. Why, is it all right?”

“More than all right,” Tanner says, clapping him on the shoulder, which nearly knocks him down. “Gonna be able to get an apartment with enough room for my gran in a few months because of it. Thanks, man.”

“Oh good, I’m glad to hear it.”

“You need anything, you just say the word.”

“Buy me a drink at WAPSOUC, and we’ll call it even.”

Tanner gives him a crooked smile. “I’ll buy you that drink, but seriously. Anytime.”

Ian ducks his head. “Thanks, I’ll uh...keep it in mind.”

***

Nancy invites him to coffee a week later. It goes well, Ian thinks—he manages not to put his foot in his mouth, at least, and Nancy seems not unwilling to see him again. She talks about work with surprising candor, but then Ian supposes he’s been somewhat cleared to hear secure information since the Powerpoint Incident.

He doesn’t know how he feels about that, so he chooses not to think about it. 

They get coffee again the next week, and then lunch. South Indian cuisine is Nancy’s favorite.

“There are little hole-in-the-wall places everywhere around here,” she says at one point, conspiratorially. “It’s my goal in life to find all of them and determine the best one.”

“A very worthy endeavor,” Ian intones. It’s a good thing he likes spicy food.

Pepper starts giving him knowing glances when he heads out of the office. 

“There was an incident with a pterodactyl last week, in Saratoga,” Nancy says at one point, some weeks later, stuffing dosa into her mouth. “Apparently not enough scientists are taking _Jurassic Park_ seriously these days. Thankfully it wasn’t so much grown in a lab as picked up from some sort of alternate universe.”

“When will they learn?” Ian shakes his head, wondering if it's bad that he's beginning to feel jaded about dinosaurs and alternate universes. “Did you have to return it through some sort of rip in reality?”

“Avengers got it done,” Nancy shrugs, “I just hung around the plane. Wouldn’t have minded having a fly-around with it, though.”

“Who’s more maneuverable? You or a dino?”

Nancy makes an incredulous face and points to herself. “Fighter jets are made for this stuff. Dinosaurs are a few billion years behind in their development when it comes to flight. The average hawk could do far better, and an F-15 beats one of those handily, apart from the size disadvantage. That said,” she added, “Dinosaurs definitely look cooler.” She splays her fingers out to either side of her. “Bat wings, but better!”

“Well, of _course_ ,” Ian scoffed. 

They drink oddly flavoured teas and make lunch a standing appointment. And for the first time in a long time, Ian starts to feel like he's some place he belongs.

***

“Run this over to SHIELD for me, would you?” Pepper says, a few weeks later. “They’ll need to go to Fury directly, don’t let them stall you at the front desk. I’d do it myself, but I’ve got that lunch meeting. ”

“And Coulson’s off in Saskatchewan, right?” Ian replies. “Training exercise with Natasha, she told me so herself.”

She swats him with the stack of files before putting them in his hands. “Cheeky,” she scolds. “Now go, Happy’s waiting for you out front.”

Ian goes. “I don’t normally rate your services,” he comments, as he slides into the luxurious backseat of Happy’s town car. “What’s the occasion?”

“Sensitive materials, I imagine,” Happy says blithely, nodding at the briefcase Ian had slipped the files into. “Pretty damn sensitive, I’d say, if she’s sending you.”

Ian looks askance at the briefcase. “She didn’t say anything.”

“Didn’t want to freak you out, probably. She knows you didn’t like that powerpoint thing being in your phone.”

“Considering that from what I gather, that powerpoint thing caused some sort of international incident, I’d say my feelings were justified,” Ian mutters. “Are.” 

“Just hand ‘em to who they’re supposed to go to, and you’ll be fine,” Happy advises, and pulls into traffic. 

The journey to SHIELD is smooth, but once inside, Ian suddenly feels like a spy on some sort of high-drama mission. It’s entirely possible that his imagination has ran away with him, but he isn’t willing to take any chances. He goes to the front desk.

“Hello! I’m here to drop this off with Director Fury,” he announces.

The man at the desk blinks at him, lizard-like. “Director Fury is not available right now,” he says. “I can take that and pass it onto the correct channels.”

“The correct channel is Director Fury,” Ian says, as firmly as he can manage.

“...Name and identification."

“Ian White, personal assistant to Pepper Potts, I have no SHIELD identification, I don’t think, but I’m happy to provide my signature or DOB as needed,” Ian reels off, because he thinks the latter is fairly important—it is rather improper that he should be gopher to SHIELD materials, after all. Pepper is busy, of course, but he’s still technically a PA. 

It occurs to him that he _does_ have SI identification, at least, so he pulls that out and pushes it across the counter. The man at the desk gives him an extremely skeptical look, but takes the card and scans it. 

“Huh,” he says, after a minute. “You’ll, uh. You’ll have to wait, but I’ll let the Director know you’re here.”

“That’s fine, I’ll just take a seat,” Ian says, and goes over to the corner of the lobby, where a single, foreboding-looking black leather couch sits sullen against the wall. He’s pretty sure it’s unusual for SHIELD to have guests who have to wait to be seen. 

Nevertheless, he still has the files, with whatever sensitive materials they might contain, and soon Fury will take them off his hands. 

Everything’s going to be fine.

“EVERYBODY GET DOWN!”

Something—everything—explodes.

For a second, all Ian is aware of is his eyesight searing off into nothingness—total white and then utter dark. He senses impact, his back hitting the wall, stinging on his face, and then shouting, so much shouting.

His briefcase. 

His hand spasms around the handle, closes. And he has one, crystal-clear thought: _run_.

So he does.

Or rather, he scrambles, stumbles, flails. As gunfire starts up, distant beneath the whine of his eardrums throbbing, he more or less throws himself in the vague direction of the front desk, and when he hits what he thinks the edge of it is, he throws himself in and under it.

His vision is beginning to clear, his lungs are heaving and convulsing to expel dust. He fumbles for his phone, and for a moment, despairs when his eyes finally focus on the No Signal sign.

Despair. Panic.

And yet. 

_There’s a code,_ Jess said at the Capital Grille, three weeks ago, two cocktails in. _I can program it into your phone, if you want? Piggybacks on the Stark-specialized emergency broadcast system. It’ll get you a signal, no matter what the fuck’s happening. I couldn’t stand the idea of not being able to say goodbye to my Mom or something, you know, if something happened. So. Extra bit of code. Hopefully I’ll never use it._

He recalls the numbers, and types them in. His signal leaps to full bars. 

Okay. Okay. 

Who to call.

Pepper? No, the office is too close, it's probably jammed too. The police? They’re probably already aware, and anyway he’s in fucking _SHIELD,_ what is he thinking—

He dials without thinking.

_“Ian?”_

“Nancy, hi, oh thank god, where are you?”

_“I’m on Long Island, I told you about that training thing, right? Wait, is that gunfire?”_

“Um, probably? I’m at SHIELD and there was a thing and I’m under a table and uh, what do I do?”

_“Jesus Christ, I—shit, we just got the alert here, I’m on my way. Listen, can you see where the gunfire is?”_

“That would require emerging from my hiding spot, so no. It sounds like it’s behind me?”

_“Okay. And where’s the nearest exit?”_

“It’s…wait, hang on, I’m not _leaving._ ”

 _“Like hell,”_ Nancy snaps. _“You get out now while you still can, Ian.”_

“I have important documents with me! What if someone snatches them as soon as I’m outside?”

_“Oh my god. Forget the documents, if they were so important Pepper would have given them to Stark for transport or something, leave the documents and get the hell out.”_

“Hey!” Ian protests, absurdly insulted. “I’m very reliable, I’ll have you know—“

“ _Ian. Not the point._ ”

“Fine! Okay.”

_“Ian. Exit. Where is it?”_

A second, more distant explosion rocks him, but the air has begun to clear just enough that he can peer through the dust. “Uh…I’m facing the elevator banks. So that means the exit’s back behind me, right?”

_“Shit. All right. Do you see other people? Where are they running to?”_

“Um, the doors? Maybe? I think the building’s going into lockdown?”

Nancy curses. _“Okay, next idea. Stairwell. Find it.”_

He blinks rapidly and spots, next to the elevators, a set of concrete stairs. “Found. I’m going.”

_“Stay low.”_

“Yep, I’ve seen movies, I know how to stay low,” he mutters, and in a frantic impression of a two-legged crab, makes a dash for it. 

Twelve paces, and then to his left, as he passes the spiky fronds of a potted plant, he hears a muffled cry, and he throws a hand out. “Come on!” he shout-whispers under another burst of gunfire. 

Whoever it is, they grab his hand, and he lurches forward, tugging with all his might, his back and thighs screaming with the effort to stay crouched. A column takes sudden explosive impact just behind him and he flinches as debris peppers him, but the force of it propels him forward, forward—

He trips on the first step, and then it’s the hand in his that’s tugging him, up and around the corner, where the stairs recede into the concrete. He finally looks up and sees— 

“Darcy?”

The whites of her eyes are round and visible, but her manic, nervous smile is just as wide and real as it had been at Capital Grille. “Oh hey, PA boy, how’s it hanging?”

“Not well,” he manages. “Do you know your way around this place?”

“More than I should,” she replies, and then they both duck as an explosion rocks the stairs and sends them stumbling into the far wall. “Shall we?”

“Yeah,” he gasps. “Yeah. Nancy? I have Darcy with me.”

_“Thor’s Darcy? Good. She knows the building. Tell her to get you both to the green rooms.”_

“Green rooms?” he suggests to Darcy. She brightens.

“Fuck yeah! Come on, it’s not far.” She leads the way around the first landing and then they both stumble as a third explosion rocks the building.

 _“Ian, are you all right?”_ Nancy yells through the phone.

Ian blinks spots and dust out of his eyes. “I...I think so?” His ankle feels a little strange, but he’s probably just stepped on something wrong.

_“Keep going, for god’s sake! I’m coming!”_

“We’re going! We’re going, right?” 

“We’re going,” Darcy affirms. She yanks Ian’s hand, and he goes, dress shoes slipping on concrete dust until they emerge into a relatively untouched area. A receptionist’s desk, abandoned, stands at the center of the room, and beyond, a small anteroom guarded by oak double-doors. Darcy runs towards them, and Ian follows.

They burst into the room, and immediately put their hands up as at least five rifles train on them. “Hold!” one of them barks. He isn’t holding a rifle, though. Is that…? Ian peers at him through dust-filled eyes. 

“Clint?”

“Jesus, Ian, what the fuck are you doing here?” Hawkeye demands. 

“I don’t know! I have something for Fury!” 

Clint lowers his bow. “Seriously?”

Ian waggles the suitcase in his hand. “I had very specific instructions! For Fury’s eyes only!”

“Did Fury know about this?”

“I assume so!”

“Gentlemen,” Darcy interrupts, “Is this the time?”

“Here’s the thing,” Clint says, wincing. “It might be.” He touches his earpiece. “Natasha? Pepper’s Ian is here, and he says he has a briefcase for Fury. Know anything about that?” He winces again, bigger. “Okay. We’re on our way.”

“Seriously?” Ian demands.

“Seriously,” Clint says in resignation. “Garvey? Gonna need you to take our six; forget Plan C, we’re moving out.”

One of the other soldiers nods and makes a series of hand signals, dispersing the other group. Clint looks at Ian and Darcy and jerks his head in the direction of the opposite end of the conference room. “Come on, you two. Try not to get shot.”

“We’ve been doing awesome at that so far,” Darcy pointed out. 

“Well, continue to do so.” 

They exit the conference room and the sound of gunfire hits again like a wall--Clint immediately draws back and with a hand gestures for them to stay put while he looks around. 

“Clear,” he pronounces, after a second. “Come on.”

Ian tries not to look around, just focuses on Clint in front of him, the warmth of Darcy just behind him. 

He realizes that his phone is still clutched in his hand, but that he’s inadvertently hung up on Nancy. He has ten missed calls from her.

 _Still with Clint,_ he texts to her. _Will text in ten._

Two seconds later: _You’d better._

Somewhere overhead, he’s pretty sure he can hear a sonic boom.

He scrolls through his contacts, half nervous twitch, half compulsion to do something, anything other than follow Clint blindly around. At the end of the contacts list is a file called _Rolodex.dts._

He’d forgotten he’d done that. Had he done that? Did Pepper do that? With mild trepidation, he opens the file. 

And just like that, his contacts list expands by a factor of twenty. “Jesus,” he says reflexively. “This was definitely not me.”

“What?” Darcy asks.

“Never mind.”

Clint leads them up several flights of stairs, stopping them at every corner to clear the area, and as he does Ian desperately tries to split his attention between staying alive and scrolling through his _new_ contacts. 

“Ian?”

“Yeah?”

“What the hell are you doing?”

Ian waves his phone at Clint. “Trying to find more people who could help?”

“We’re going to Natasha, she’ll get us to Fury. That’s all the help we need.”

“What if I have Fury’s number?”

“No one has Fury’s number. You don’t call Fury, Fury calls you.”

Ian gets to the F’s and raised his eyebrows. “I think I do.” He presses ‘Call’ and falls into step as Clint herds him and Darcy up another flight.

Two rings, and then: _“I don’t know who you are, and no one I don’t know should have this number, so talk fast.”_

“This is Pepper’s Ian and I was told to go to SHIELD to give you a briefcase but now SHIELD’s on fire,” Ian blurts. He’s only slightly embarrassed to call himself Pepper’s. Clint started it; he can blame Clint.

“Holy shit,” Darcy mutters.

There is a long, agonizing second of silence. Then: " _Pepper gave her PA her_ entire _Rolodex?”_

“It’s come in handy in the past!” Ian exclaims, indignant.

_“I’m sure it goddamn has. It’s also put you on all number of watch lists. No wonder we’re locked down. Are you with anyone useful?”_

“...Clint?”

_“It’ll do. Give him the phone.”_

Silently, Ian holds the phone out to Clint, and Clint takes it with a very pointed look. “Dude,” he says, shaking his head, before raising the phone to his ear. “Sir, I’m here with half of Unit 12 and Darcy Lewis, and we’re heading to Natasha. Yes, Thor’s Darcy.”

Darcy rolls her eyes. 

Clint is nodding. “Yes, sir. No, I don’t know, but she brought Ian with her, so. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. No, I think that’s probably for the best, sir. Yes, we’ll get it done, sir. See you soon.”

He hangs up and tosses the phone back to Ian, who fumbles but manages not to drop it. “Right, let’s go. Change of plans.”

“Natasha?” Darcy asks.

“Meeting us there. We’re going downstairs.”

“What, we just came from there!”

“We’re taking a different route.” Clint trots over to the far side of the room, where a bank of three elevators stood recessed into the wall. “Mike, do you have…?”

“Yep, done.” One of presumably the guys from Unit 12 falls into place next to Clint and pulls what looked like a pack of either drugs or C4 out of his pack. Ian assumes, with deepening resignation, that it’s C4.

Less than a minute later, they’re both running back and gesturing to take cover. Ian covers his ears and follows as best he can. 

“We couldn’t have just called—?”

_BOOM._

“What is it about ‘lockdown’ that isn’t clear?” Clint shouts back, when the explosion subsided.

Ian coughs out dust in reply. Then seconds later, they’re all at what's left of the elevators.

“Right,” Clint says. “Ian, you’re with me.”

“For what?”

Clint is directly in front of him and clicking something into place against Ian’s belt.

“Oh no.”

“Yep,” Clint says cheerily. “Someone take Darcy, we’re going six floors down.”

“Anyone who takes this opportunity to grope me is getting maced,” Darcy says brightly. “I don’t care if I break my legs as a result.”

“It’ll be fine,” Clint assures, as presumably one of Unit 12 takes that warning under advisement.. 

“Obviously,” Ian says, but he sounds shrill even to his own ears. He flattens his tie down and realizes his hands are shaking.

“Seriously,” Clint says. “You’re going to be fine. In fact, you have to be, or Harker will kill me.” He finishes strapping the two of them together and abruptly pulls Ian into a hug. “Ready?”

On instinct, Ian clutches him back, just in time for his brain to catch up to words and for Clint to throw them in the direction of the elevator shaft. 

“Wait, what did Nancy _saAAAAAAAAYYYYYYY—_ ”

***

They make it to the basement.

Ian may have peed himself, but only a little. 

“Not so bad, right?” Clint says.

“Hmeugh,” says Ian.

“Jeez,” says Darcy, dusting herself off. “You were borderline, but I appreciate the assist.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am,” Mike says dryly. 

Clint leads the way out of the elevator shaft and into what looks like a very ominous basement, where industrial lighting dimly casts pools of light onto the concrete floor. 

“The hell is this place?” Ian hisses, when his legs start working again and he finishes scrambling to catch up.

“What, you think SHIELD wasn’t going to have a secret sub-basement?” Clint asks.

“Of course you do, but up there, that’s the official building! You don’t have a shadow building? Like shadow governments?”

“We _are_ the shadow government,” Mike says. “Or, the shadow security force. Whatever. You get it.”

“Ugh.”

“Chatter,” Clint says. “We’re not out of it yet.”

But they aren’t bothered. It’s strangely quiet. Ian belatedly does some math, and realizes that they must be four floors deep underground. “What’s in the upper basement?” he asks.

“Stuff,” Garvey says.

“And things,” Mike adds.

“Ah. Illuminating.”

“Took me two years to get my iPod back from these dudes,” Darcy says. “They probably don’t even know what’s here.”

“Ouch,” Garvey says. 

“No one listens to me,” Clint opines.

“Because you’re the source of ninety percent of all the chatter I hear in this joint, Barton,” Fury says, appearing seemingly out of midair.

“Ninety-five, by my count,” Natasha said, appearing at his side.

“Gah,” Ian says. 

Fury looks thoroughly unimpressed. Upon third glance, he had maybe been coming down a side hallway that seemed to disappear into complete darkness. Or hell, maybe he teleports. “I believe you have something for me, Mr. White?”

Silently, Ian trudges over and hands off the briefcase. Natasha sidles over to him. “Did Pepper tell you anything about this?”

“ _No_ ,” Ian says, a little betrayed. “She just...she wasn’t even there this morning, I just got a message, and then Happy brought me here, and then—” he mades a broad gesture above his head, at what he presumes is still a disaster upstairs. 

Natasha frowns. “She wouldn’t do that to you. Nick, she can’t have known.”

“No,” Fury agrees, setting the briefcase on a jeep covered in tarpaulin. “Coulson was likely trying to be discreet. It would have worked fine, if Ms. Potts had delivered it herself, or just sent Happy. Mr. White, between your copy of the Rolodex, an administrative fuckup and a wrongheaded delegation, I’m afraid you’ve been the victim of a series of very unfortunate circumstances.” He opens the briefcase and sighs. “Yep. Definitely unfortunate.”

“What’s in there?” Darcy asks.

“Stuff,” Fury replies. “And things.”

“Ah,” Ian says in complete incomprehension. 

“In other words, it’s no one’s fault,” Natasha translates, a little wryly. 

Ian stares at her. “People better not be dead upstairs.”

“It’s the Wrecking Crew,” she says with a shrug. “A lot of bark, not so much bite.”

“There were _guns.”_

“Yes,” she agrees. “And without any training or outside help, you didn’t get shot. The vast majority of the people upstairs are highly trained, know this building like the backs of their hands, and are armed. Our insurance premiums might go up, but I highly doubt there’s going to be many casualties.”

Ian blows out a breath. “I hope you’re right.” Then he brightens. “Maybe we can find out.” He pulls out his phone again and scrolls further up his contacts list. “Nancy?”

 _“Ian, thank god. Are you safe?”_ The sound of whooshing air and engines nearly drowns her out.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Are you here? Are things okay upstairs?”

Nancy coughs. “ _More than. Did you hijack some sort of satellite or something? Because whatever it was, Stark freaked out, and everyone from Stark Tower freaked out, and now there’s some sort of coordinated defensive maneuver going on both inside and out of headquarters, and maybe it’s just a security level I’m not privy to, but I’m pretty sure it’s not a standard SHIELD play_.”

Ian has no idea what to make of that. “Huh. But you’re okay?”

She snorts. “ _Obviously. We’re coming in hot on the roof, can you get up there?_ ”

“Well, I’m in the basement…”

_“Ah. Never mind. I’m sure we’ll make our way to you soon enough. Ready, Ms. Potts?”_

_“As ever,”_ Ian can hear Pepper say through his own mental record-scratch. _“Ian, I’m glad you’re alright! I’m so sorry about this! You’re getting a raise!”_

“Uh...it’s fine?” he squeaks.

 _“We’ll see you soon,”_ Nancy promises. _“Rescue, prepare for landing!”_

“Okay??”

_“Wasn’t talking to you. See you soon.”_

The line cuts out. Ian stares at the phone, askance.

“How do you even get reception down here?” Clint asks.

“Stark,” Fury growls.

“Ah.”

“We need to get this to a secure location,” Fury continues, closing the briefcase and hefting it into one hand. “Hawkeye, you and Widow see about resolving the situation upstairs. Garvey, take Miss Lewis to the 45th St. waystation, Dr. Foster can pick her up from there. Mr. White, you’re with me.”

“What? Why?”

“Because if I put you in the line of fire with everyone else, Ms. Potts will make Coulson’s life a living hell, and then Coulson will make _my_ life a living hell, and you have not known hell until Phil Coulson has determined to show you it. Clear?”

“...Clear.”

“Good. Dismissed, everyone.”

Silent and sure, Natasha and Clint take everyone back upstairs, and Ian follows Nick Fury’s retreating back, feeling like a lost lamb.

They don’t go far. Just to a dark corner of what still looks like merely an underground parking lot for military cars, where between two Jeeps was nestled a narrow, industrial lift. 

“Get in,” Fury said. 

Ian got in. 

“I have to ask one favor,” Fury says, once Ian has folded himself into the furthest corner of the lift. 

“Yeah?”

Fury looks...resigned, at best. “In that Rolodex. Can you see if a certain Ms. Waller is in there?”

Ian raises his eyebrows, but does as he’s told. “Uh...yeah, she’s here. Do you need me to call her?”

“That would be best,” Fury says. “Tell her she’s biting off more than she can chew, and that next time I need a reminder about my security, she can just call me, for fuck’s sake.”

“Do you want that...verbatim?”

“Give me that damn phone.”

***

When all is said and done, the first four floors of SHIELD are a mess of plaster and broken granite tiling, there are five hospitalizations, and no fatalities. Ian won’t learn that until much, much later, though.

Instead, after Fury gets off the phone with whoever Ms. Waller is and gives Ian his phone back, Ian is dropped off in a conference room ten floors up, where it’s unsettlingly normal and clean, and no one so much as glances at him. “Someone’ll get you,” he thinks he hears Fury say. He’s not sure if he answers or not.

But for a long while, no one comes. They’re busy, he’s certain. 

He sits there. His ankle throbs and his ears ring.

Alarms blare briefly, and are reset. 

Two hours pass. After the first, Ian begins to feel less and less like he has a body, and begins to believe more and more that he had died at some point and is in fact waiting to be sorted into the afterlife. That would explain things. Highly logical.

At two o’clock, roughly four hours since he’d first walked into SHIELD, Nancy bursts in, nearly breaking the glass door in her haste.

“You’re okay! Oh my god, you’re okay, never do that again, you’re banned from this building, I’m revoking your privileges—”

“Oof,” Ian says, and tries to hug her back, but it’s getting difficult to breathe between the angle she’d tackled him at and the strength of her arms. Still, suffocation is a very good sign that he isn’t, in fact, dead.

“You’re not, I promise you’re not.”

“Ah,” Ian says. “Well, that’s good. I’m glad you’re okay, too.” He’s actually, he realizes hazily, _extremely_ glad. His eyes water. He hides them in her shoulder, and she lets him.

When he stops shivering (he hadn’t realized he’d started), she pulls back and smiles at him. There’s a cut on her cheek, and her ringlets are covered in a fine layer of ash. She looks very heroic, and very lovely. Ian could not feel more the opposite of that. He looks down at his feet, his work shoes scuffed and dirty, leaving debris on the gray featureless corporate carpet of the conference room. 

“You technically need to be debriefed. But you were with Barton and Fury most of the time, right?”

“And Darcy. Well, first Darcy, then Barton, then Fury and Natasha. Wh—”

“Yeah, screw it, let’s get you home. They can do the debrief, it’s been a long goddamn day.”

“Is that...okay?”

“It’s okay because I say so.”

“Rebel.” 

She straightens, and uses a grip on his elbows to bring him with her. He sags against her. “I didn’t even do anything,” he mumbles. “Why am I so tired?”

“Adrenaline production and processing is exhausting,” Nancy says. “Also, have you ever been shot at before?”

“Not that I can remember?”

“Yeah, that’ll do it.” She pauses, but Ian continues to stare at their feet. Her boots are far better suited to this. “Sir.”

Ian makes a questioning noise. “Mm?”

“Not you.”

There’s a silence, which Ian would be wondering about if he had any ability to be interested in anything at this point. 

“Yeah, all right,” Fury says. “Sorry about the wait, Mr. White.”

“Uh. Sure, no problem?”

“Stop talking, Ian,” Nancy says. “Just come along.”

***

Nancy finds Happy somewhere, and Happy takes them to Nancy’s apartment in Harlem. It’s a nice prewar walk-up, with a marble lobby and an iron staircase painted with thick coats of flaking black paint. Ian watches the floor tiles go by underfoot, waits for Nancy to unlock her door, and shuffles inside. 

“This is nice,” Ian comments vaguely. “You keep plants?” Pots of vines hang between watercolor sketches along the walls, and a slouchy mint green couch is shoved up against the wall next to a maple coffee table. 

“A few,” Nancy agrees with amusement. “When I remember to water them. Now come on, you need a shower.”

“So do you…?”

“I can wait.”

She lets him take over her bathroom, and Ian drowns himself under hot water until his fingers prune and instead of strung out and tired, he just feels tired.

“I left some PJs for you outside the door!” Nancy calls.

“Thank you!”

They’re pastel purple, baggy in the hips, and short around the ankles, and he very much doesn’t care. He slips them on and trudges out. “All yours,” he murmurs. 

“Cool.” She passes him on the way to the bathroom. “Couch is made up. Feel free to have a nap. Do you need ice? Aspirin?” When he shakes his head, she pats his shoulder, and Ian could swear she mutters under her breath, as she closes the door, “ _Adorable.”_

Sure enough, the couch is covered in a fitted sheet, and a pile of blankets and pillows is stacked on one end. Suddenly, it looks like the best thing Ian’s seen all day. Maybe second to Nancy, but it’s a close second.

He buries himself in all of them all at once, slowly curling into a cocoon of softness and the faint smell of Nancy’s shampoo, and sleep pulls him down like quicksand.

***

In all, Ian sleeps for about eighteen hours. He’s vaguely aware of Nancy puttering around, and the smell of soup, and hearing her take phone calls. When he finally wakes fully, it’s morning. If it weren’t for waking up in Nancy’s apartment instead of his own, he’d have chalked the day before up as a particularly horrible nightmare. Instead, however, he opens his eyes to orange light spilling across old parquet floors, and smells coffee.

“Coffee?” he croaks.

“He lives!” Nancy pokes her head out of the kitchen. “How do you take yours? I can't offer you a cinnamon latte, that's beyond my capabilities.”

“Milk and sugar, please, if you have it.” He waves a hand out of the covers. “I know you’re lactose intolerant, you have almond milk. That’s fine.”

She gives him a thumbs up.

“Where’s my phone?”

“Coffee table.”

He flails and retrieves it. There are thirteen voicemails, and fifty-four texts. “Oh god.”

“I told Pepper you were sleeping. You have the rest of the week off. Everything else, you’ll have to deal with yourself.”

Ian shrugs and starts scrolling through. He frowns. “I don’t know a lot of these numbers. Who has a West Virginia area code around here?”

Nancy comes over, puts a cup of coffee on the table, and looks over his shoulder.

“Oh! That’s probably Edwin. You know Edwin, he works in HR at SHIELD. Didn’t you help him with a recruitment practices audit?”

“Oh yeah. We only ever talked by email. Is he nice?”

“Extremely nice. And apparently he’s worried about you. Reply to him.”

Ian types out a quick reply, assuring that he’s okay. As he starts scrolling through the rest of the messages, he realizes that he’s going to have to re-type much of the same...many, many times. 

“How did all these people even know I was in the building?” he asks blankly, after replying _I’m OK, sorry for worrying you_ another five times. 

“Your distress signal, dummy,” Nancy says. She gulps down her coffee. “That and Pepper. She’s been very vocal about revamping SHIELD confidentiality protocols and information procedures in the past twenty-four hours.”

“I mean that seems...good.” He retrieved his cup from the table and took a sip. “Oh my god, you’re amazing. This is exactly right.”

“Not too sweet?”

“Perfect.”

She looks pleased. 

“What actually happened, with that whole thing?” Ian asks. “What the hell was in that briefcase?”

“Something level ten clearance or higher, I assume,” Nancy shrugs. “Because I have no fucking idea. Something for Coulson and Pepper’s eyes only. I hear she’s Level _Twelve,_ I didn't even know that existed.”

He shudders involuntarily. “Great. Imagine if the Wrecking Crew had gotten it. Or hell, if I’d opened that thing.”

“You weren’t going to open it,” Nancy dismisses. “You’re responsible and good at your job, and you trust Pepper not to lead you wrong, so that was never a risk. As for the Wrecking Crew...you can’t think that way. You did everything right, and even if you hadn’t, there were failsafes. We made a mistake, but the whole point of being part of a big organization is that if one person makes a mistake, it’s not the end of the world. That’s how things should work. They don’t always—when people are selfish, or there’s a power imbalance, or no one’s thought about resource management—but that’s how SHIELD works, and that’s how things should work.”

Ian mulls this over, fueled by the onset of a caffeine high. “That’s...nice. I’ve never worked for a real company before SI, and academia is...not like that.”

Nancy nods. “There you go. Finish answering your mail.”

“Do you need me to go?” He extricates himself a little further from the pile of blankets. “I can go, if I’m in your way.”

She tilts her head at him. “You’re not in my way. And if you help clean up when you’re feeling up to it, you’ll be the opposite of a hindrance.”

“Clean up,” he says faintly. “I can do that.”

And he does. With a complete sense of unreality, he finishes his coffee, and then cleans up the sofa. And rearranges the contents of the coffee table. And waters the plants. And—

“Stop,” Nancy says. “Sit.”

He sits. She sits down across from him, on the coffee table. “Is this a post-trauma thing?” she asks. “Or is this just what you do?”

He stares at her.

“Wow,” she says a little faintly. “I was right. White goddamn knight, huh?”

“Noooo,” Ian protests, automatically. “You, you said before, and you were right, that’s a _bad thing that you don’t need,_ I’m not that, I’m, I’m...silly and neurotic.” 

“Yes, you are,” she agrees. “It’s very endearing. But don't think I haven't noticed. You’ve also been quietly making SI a better place to work, and if I hadn’t stopped you, you would have vacuumed my whole damn apartment after experiencing a very scary, very real emergency situation. White knight stuff.” She tilts her head. "I don't hate it, when it's genuine."

“Well…” he shrugs helplessly. “I’ve been lucky? Art didn’t work out, so I land this great job with a great boss? I manage to live in the one place in this godforsaken city that doesn’t regularly get wrecked by supervillains? I don’t know, it just seems like if I don’t pay it forward, I’m owed a lot of bad karma.”

“Most people don’t think like that. Most people are just thankful, and go along with their day.”

“That’s fine! But I don’t know. I’m in a position to do more, so.” He scrolls down through his messages. “Jesus. How the hell does Spiderman have my number?”

Nancy shrugs. But she shifts from the table to the couch, pulling herself flush to his side. He can feel red crawl up his cheeks. Damn his honky complexion. “Dunno,” she says. “Sounds like that could be interesting in future. Now you have his number, too.”

“I guess?”

She pats his arm. “Don’t worry about it. Take another nap, leave and find a change of clothes whenever you want, and go back to work on Monday. If you want to do some tidying, you’re welcome to, but you don’t have to. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” Ian can feel her looking at him, and turns to see her considering him with an expression he can’t read at all. “What?” 

“Nothing,” she says. “Go back to sleep.” 

And then she kisses him on the cheek with a warmth he’d never quite received from her before, and then shoves him sideways until he collapses back into the embrace of the couch. 

“Well, fine,” he says, a bit faint and a bit petulant. “Be that way. All muscly and heroic. Rude.”

“I shall be that way,” Nancy replies, her smile audible. “And you shall be your way. Good night again.”

***

Tanner gives him a hug as he goes through security on Monday. Alma in HR fusses over his hair in the elevator.

“Something is about to go terribly wrong,” he announces as he exits the elevator on Pepper’s floor. His lapels have been meticulously straightened (Tom in Accounting) and he clutches both his tea (Jess) and a doughnut (Chris in R&D) to his chest. 

“Oh?” Pepper rounds her desk, her arms outstretched. “How do you mean?” She brushes the shoulders of his suit. “This is nice. Is this the Brooks Brothers I told you to get? I told you it wouldn’t be stodgy on a beanpole like you. How are you feeling?”

“Stoooop.” He shies away. “Everyone’s being weird. You’re being weird.”

Pepper hums, but lets him reclaim his space. “I’m afraid that’s required. You gave us all a scare.”

“I’m _fine._ ”

“And we’re all glad about it. God knows I’d be hard pressed to find yet another PA of yours and Natasha’s quality in the space of a year.” She holds out her hand. “Now. May I have your phone for a moment?”

He hands it over. “Rolodex?”

“Rolodex.”

“I swear I didn’t install it, I have no idea how it got there—”

“I put it there,” she interrupts. “I probably should have asked permission, so I apologize for that, but I had sort of lumped it in with the rest of your duties, and you were doing such good work with it, that it seemed silly to keep your access to it limited to the office.”

“Good...wait, what?”

She cocks an eyebrow at him. “You didn’t think I wasn’t keeping track of all the people you called? You were using your work phone.”

“Well I mean yeah, but…” He hunches shoulders. He’d definitely abused the Rolodex more than once, and not just for Hawkeye. He just figured Pepper had been _tolerating_ it, or at best turning a blind eye.

“I’m not taking it away from you. Unless you want me to. But I think you should have it. I just need to update it with a few more names. That okay?”

He guppies at her. “...Yes? But, security? Fury said I’m on a watchlist now.”

“Oh, you are. But we’ve had words about that. It shouldn’t be a problem anymore.” She smiles. “Anyway, good. I’m glad you want it.” She taps a few buttons and hands it back. “There you are. I’ve already sorted through my week’s schedule, but if you wouldn’t mind reviewing Wednesday’s reports and holding my calls until eleven, I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure,” he says faintly. “Wednesday reports, eleven. No problem.”

He watches her retreat and shut her office doors behind her, leaving him in quiet, the hum of activity just barely audible from downstairs. He looks at his phone, scrolls through. The new names in the Rolodex aren’t familiar to him--he has no idea who Carol is, or E. Lehnsherr, but he’s guessing they’re pretty important people. 

He keeps scrolling, and then brings up his text messages with Nancy.

_Lunch on Wednesday? Curry?_

Ten seconds, and then, _Definitely!_

He waffles, and then types, with his shoulders rising up around his ears as he does so, _As a date?? Maybe?????_

_Took you long enough. Yes, as a date._

Ian has to take a second to do a silent, very undignified fist-pump. _Great! I’ll find a place._

_Sounds good! Looking forward._

He tips his head back, and stares at the ceiling for a second. “I will use my powers for evil,” he says aloud. “But only this once.” 

And then he dials.

“Dr. Banner? Do you have a second? This is Pepper’s PA. I’m sorry to bother you, but I have a quick favor to ask.” 

He’s going to find the best, most authentic Indian restaurant in the city, so help him.


End file.
